a caterpillar with a pint of guinness
is no caterpillar at all.
my dry leaf cocoon remains
left in the corner of a dim
bar with a dark pint.
metamorphosis and stumble
scribble and shift so as not to
slur well maybe just a little as
I lean crookedly next to the urinal.
now a butterfly with a pair of cardboard
wings might still be a butterfly
as long as he's not cut off to soon.
my coaster telling me all i need to know
an empty glass to my right reflects in me
this sackcloth heart hung
on a barstool for moths
to perch and feed
metamorphosis curse and fade
seven more weeks until
my monarch days
seven more steps to the
door.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem